


Sunday Mornings

by ackles_likes_snackles



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 12:24:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4876651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ackles_likes_snackles/pseuds/ackles_likes_snackles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a little Sam ficlet based on a prompt given to me by my sweet angel cupcake <a href="http://scatterlights.tumblr.com">scatterlights</a> on tumblr. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Mornings

Sunday mornings always meant one of two things. 

The thought process was always the same. It went one of two ways. Always on a Sunday. Dean had told him stories of their mother, of course. Still to this day, he asks his older brother about Mary. It’s always the same stories being retold over and over, because there are so few memories. But he doesn’t care. He listens intently each time as if it’s his first, and he smiles along with Dean every time he says her name. As if it leaves a sweet taste in his mouth. 

Sam can usually go about his weekend routine, pushing these stories and phantom memories to the back of his mind, ignoring the sharp pain in his chest that reminds him of the absence of something that was never there to begin with. He can get out of bed, make a pot of coffee for Dean and himself, and maybe even go for a run. He can study the local news, search for potential cases, sift through the Men of Letters library, familiarizing himself with everything: the lore, the spells, the history. Everything he can get his hands on. He even liked it. He liked picking up the dust-covered books covered in sigils, front to back, and opening it up to discover an entirely new universe he was just beginning to delve into. This was supposed to be his legacy, after all. He only thought it fair he give the lifestyle a try. 

But he was still a hunter. Raised like a warrior. Given a .45 when he was scared of the “things in the dark.” He may have fought tooth and nail to get out of the life when he was still young and what could be considered naive for a hunter. But since Stanford, nothing had been the same. That apple-pie, white-picket fence life just wasn’t for him anymore. It wasn’t what he wanted. Wasn’t what he was destined to do. He’d grown to like the balance between the life of a Hunter and that of a Man of Letters. 

But Sundays were different. They lagged. Dragged on, even. Sometimes a hunt would bleed into a Sunday, but it wasn’t often that it happened. Dean insisted on his “day of rest,” while Sam instead preferred the distraction of a hunt. 

So it always went like this. He could usually do all of these things. Bury himself in research or maybe even some recreational reading. Dean would walk through the library now and then, reminding Sam to eat as he slid a plate of grilled cheese across the table, mumbling something about his little brother being a “book worm,” but still smirking affectionately and walking away, leaving him be in the quiet, empty space. As if this were their life. Something that could’ve been…just in a more twisted sort of way.

The domesticity brought Dean comfort, Sam knew. But it only took his own away. It reminded him of what he used to want. What he used to long for. It made him imagine what Sunday mornings could’ve been like with mom. Mom, he’d think. I miss you.

Then there were those Sunday mornings when he just couldn’t get out of bed. If it wasn’t the other type of Sunday morning, it was this. He couldn’t get up and make that pot of coffee. He couldn’t go out for that run. He couldn’t nestle himself into the library and bury himself in research and books and news and cases. He couldn’t sit there waiting for Dean to bring him some sort of mickey-moused meal, hearing the same dry comment again. He couldn’t think about how his brother needed this interaction so badly when he couldn’t even bring himself to get out of bed. He wanted to do it for Dean. And most Sundays, he did. But some were different. And Dean knew that, too. He’d let Sam hole up in his room sometimes, checking in once in a while to make sure he was okay. But mostly, he’d let him be. 

He’d be left alone with his thoughts, his imagination always taking him back to the same place. _What would today be like if things were different?_ Some Sunday mornings, he’d let that sadness take over. Cover him like a dark cloud and hang over him. He’d lay there lost in thought, feeling both pain and longing in what kind of surreal happiness he could create for himself in his childhood that never was. He’d allow himself this little time to feel the pain. To maybe even allow a tear or two to fall. Not much. Just enough so that his heart could leak enough pain so that it wouldn’t burst. 

He’d smile to himself now, eyes wet and swollen, cheeks red. Maybe Sunday mornings could’ve gone a little something like this. 

_Mary might make her three boys a Sunday brunch after church, commenting on how great the sermon was that morning. Maybe she’d let the boys watch some cartoons together while she and John sat together on the couch, watching and smiling. Maybe she’d make a habit out of baking a pie every Sunday. Maybe she’d even let little Sammy help. He’d get flour in his hair, and Dean might come through the kitchen only to ruffle up his flour-coated, mop head and lick his lips at the sight of a pie in the making. Maybe he’d snag a piece of dough crust and shove it in Sam’s ear, riling him up and running away while his little brother chased after him. Dean might giggle and taunt Sammy, making his little brother’s brow furrow in frustration. Maybe it’d end in a wrestling match between the two._

_John might even sit in his recliner reading the paper, shaking his head and smiling to himself behind it. Eventually, he might end the wrestling with a firm “Boys!” and a perk of the eyebrow above his paper. Maybe the brothers would give him the usual puppy-dog look and feign innocence in response. They might even get John to soften up and play Cowboys and Indians with them in the end._

_Then Mary might come in to stand in the doorway, watching and engaging them further. “A cowboy’s gotta eat,” she’d say as she’d slide a fresh slice of pie in front of each of the boys. Dean would always try to snag a bite of Sammy’s piece, but Sammy would always catch him. “Dean, you’ve got your own!” Sammy would whine. “Well, yeah but yours tastes better,” Dean would retort cleverly._

_Maybe Sammy would help Mary clean up. Maybe he’d even like it. He’d like helping his mom in the kitchen, and she’d like it, too. It’d be their special time alone together. Maybe she’d ask for Sammy’s help in opening a pickle jar, smiling and commenting on how strong he is, how big he’ll be some day. All the while, Dean likes to help Dad in the garage. They’d work on that old Impala together. Sammy liked to watch sometimes, but he liked doing the dishes better anyway. So what if Dean called him a Nancy._

_Eventually, the boys would get tucked into bed. Maybe Mary would sit with them, humming “Hey, Jude” as she stroked their hair. Maybe she’d brush Sammy’s out of his eyes, tucking it behind his ears. He’d look up at his mom like she was the world as she told him that angels were watching over him. And he’d believe her, too. Maybe they’d pray together. Thank God for mommy and daddy and brother Dean and uncle Bobby. Maybe she’d kiss him on the forehead as he drifted off to sleep. She might even crawl into bed with John and they’d stay there through the night in the next room down the hall. Safe and sound until morning. The next day would come and he’d look forward to this all again next week._

_Yeah. Sunday mornings would be the best._

The question was…what kind of Sunday morning would it be today?


End file.
